Oh, dont worry, love. The baby was born a bit early, but shes a sturdy little thing. Everythingll turn out finefor your daughter and for your granddaughter.
God bless you, I said to the doctor as she slipped away, and once she was out of the room I muttered under my breath, What a tragedy.
That tragedy struck the family of Margaret six months ago. It began when the nosy neighbour, Mrs. Hargreaves, popped round for a cuppa and a slice of apple jam. She let slip, halfsmiling:
When are you expecting the little one? Have you started putting away nappies yet?
What do you mean, when? Margaret snapped, taken aback.
What? Mrs. Hargreaves pressed on, her tongue wagging. I saw your farmhand, Clara, two weeks ago, waddling out of the calf shed with a cloth over her mouth.
Maybe she ate something wrong Margaret tried to keep the peace.
Oh, youve never been through a pregnancy yourself, so you dont know a thing. Im not a midwife, and I know nothing about this sort of thing.
That evening Aunt Margaret interrogated Clara, then broke down in tears, cursing the misfortune that had befallen her daughter, the unborn child, the suntanned farmhand whod already left his mark, and all the men in the village whod followed suit.
When little Elsie arrived, she didnt bring joy, only chores, resentment and a burning shame. Clara showed no warmth or tenderness toward the babe. She would pick her up when she was fed or when she cried, and that was the limit of her care. Aunt Margaret watched her granddaughter with indifference, offering no affection either. This was already the fourth granddaughterwhat was there to be glad about? Her own daughters children werent any better. So Elsie entered this world unloved, stumbling on unsteady legs through life.
A year later Clara moved to the council estate to chase her own happiness. Elsie stayed with Aunt Margaret, who, for all her faults, was still family. The girl required no special attention; she ate what was given, went to bed on schedule, never fell ill. The doctor was rightElsie was a robust child, though still terribly unloved.
Grandmother Margaret raised Elsie until she was seven. In that time Clara learned to be a painter, got married and had a son, Charlie. It was then that Clara remembered Elsie, now a teenager, and thought she could be a help around the house. She drove out to the village to fetch her daughter, but Elsie, who saw her mother only twice a year, showed no particular delight at the reunion. Clara gave her a sharp look and said,
Oh, Elsie, you act as if youre not my own. Another girl would be overjoyed, cling to me, but you stand there like a stranger.
Seeing Elsie off, Aunt Margaret shed a tear, missed her for a couple of days, but the following Saturday her older son brought home his two beloved grandchildren, Lily and Sally. The aunts mind raced with chores, and she quickly forgot about Elsie. The unloved girl felt little remorse for her grandmother, but she did weep for the sudden arrival of the chubby little ones.
Life in the council estate didnt win Elsie over, but she had no choice. Over time she made friends, went to school, did her homework, ran errands for bread and milk, peeled potatoes before her mother returned. As she grew older she escorted Charlie to nursery and, imitating her mother, would tell a cheeky lad,
Watch your step, youre my punishment. Im running out of strength! Im pulling my last strings, and you give me nothing!
Charlie never heard a word of love from his sister, and neither did Elsie. She never expected such words; shed always been the unloved one. The girl suffered little, simply because she never knew a different way.
She did hear the tender nicknames other girls called each other by, and her own mother used to call Charlie sunshine or little cat. Elsie, once called Eliza, Zina or simply Elsie, firmly believed she wasnt meant to be a sunshine. She was grown, unlike Charlie.
At home they didnt pamper Elsie, but they didnt treat her harshly eitherno scolding over a slice of bread. They didnt dress her up or spoil her with sweets, yet she wasnt left starving or ragged; she was simply unloved.
At fifteen she left the chilly council flat, which had never become a home. She won a place at a city college, studying confectionery. Her dream was to eat pastries until she burst. In the city she liked her new flat, sharing a dorm room with three other girls, keeping everything tidy after classes.
When she met Tom, life suddenly burst into colour. Though November was bleak and damp, the sun seemed to shine just for her. The other dormmates would pop out for an hour to watch television in the common room. Tom wasnt shy; he whispered sweet, dizzying words that made her head spin.
Youre my darling, he murmured, and Elsie, accustomed to endless neglect, felt a flutter of happiness.
Soon she began feeling nauseous each morning. She should have rushed to the doctor, but she missed the appointment. By eighteen she was still single, so she had to get a doctors note and head to the registry office with a suddenly restless Tom.
Thus began her married life, and at the same time her brief romance ended. The young couple moved into Toms family house. Toms mother and aunt gave her no special affection, yet they let her stay on their plot. She wasnt the first, nor would she be the last, to make a modest life there. Perhaps it was for the best; a child would be born, and Tom would settle down.
A friend from the estate envied her,
Youre lucky, youll live in the city, become a city girl.
Elsie didnt argue. She didnt need to tell everyone that her city life was just a name. Their house was in a suburban culdesac, with comforts like a village, but you still had to fetch water from the communal tap at the end of the lane. She didnt complain; she was used to it. She carried a bucket of water each day, feeling the cool splash on her feet, and that same cold water seemed to wash over the baby shed yet to bear. Her motherinlaw scolded her, but was it really her fault?
Tom seemed to pity her for a day or two, then drifted off with his mates. His mother and aunt didnt chase Elsie out; they let her stay and help around the house. Perhaps something could work out. It didnt. After a while Tom brought another woman home, declared he never loved Elsie, never had.
Elsie poured her heart out to her dormroom friends, wept briefly, then accepted that shed spent her whole life unloved. She packed her few belongings, obeyed the motherinlaws instruction to go anywhere, and shut the door behind her.
She moved into the factorys dormitory. The canteen was on site, the block was close to the gate, and the workers club was just next door. Lifes a raspberry, theyd say, live and be merry. Elsie smiled, not cursing, not sulking, just getting on with it. She went to work, to the club, to the cinema with her mates.
She visited her mother, stepfather and brother only rarely. They didnt wait for her, and she didnt press her case. Grandmother Margaret died when Elsie was twentyone. She attended the funeral, looked over the old family plot.
Grandmother Margaret left her cottage to her beloved granddaughters Lily and Sally. Elsie held no grudge; after all, they were the favoured ones, the berrysweet grandchildren. She was the cutoff, unloved branch.
If Elsie had claimed any part of the inheritance, the relatives would have fought over the fivehundredpound house. The loudest was Clara, who wailed about the crooked spoon the late grandmother had left for her beloved Charlie, cursing the fact that hed get nothing. Isnt he a grandson? shed sob, Why is he any less than Lily or Sally? She never even thought of her older daughter. Elsie was denied even a bent spoon.
She tried a couple of times to shape her life, dated a few men, but nothing stuck. No suitors ever took her to the registry, so she never rushed there herself. Shed been once, that was enough.
Her love life never clicked for the same reasons each time: one bloke drank and chased after other women, the other drank and was violent. You decide which is worse. Elsie was relieved she never got tangled up in a messy registry. She tossed her few possessions into a battered suitcase and returned to the shabby dormitory bunk where her friends waited.
For over ten years she drifted from one dorm to another, tired of foreign beds. She was nearly thirty, and any woman at that age wants her own corner, her own kettle, her own shelf. Single folk got apartments last, families got them first.
Every now and then shed drop by Aunt Adas laundry room at the factory, sharing a cuppa and a chat. After a few months Ada, whod lost her niece in childbirth, started talking to Elsie about a widower named Matthew, her nieces husband.
Elsie, a year ago my niece passed away after giving birth. Her little girl survived, and now theres a man looking after her. Ive been watching you; youre a solid, hardworking woman. Matthews a decent blokequiet, only drinks on holidays, not a violent sort. Hes not a poet, but hes kind. Maybe you could think about moving in with him. The little girl, Sonya, will call you Mum.
Elsie thought it over and moved in with Matthew. She spruced up his modest room for the May holidays, bought new curtains, stitched a couple of little dresses from yellow and blue fabric for the baby. Sonya soon started babbling, calling her Mum.
Matthew was calm, never raised his voice, gave his wages, never said harsh words. He never whispered love, but Elsie had never been used to such talk. Shed accepted a life of neglect from birth.
Three years into the marriage she finally heard words of love, not from Matthew, but from Sonya, who ran in from the garden clutching a bunch of dandelions, hugged Elsie, planted a kiss on her cheek and whispered,
Mum, I love you. I love you more than anyone more than Daddy, more than Aunt Ada, more than my doll.
Elsie threw her arms around her daughter, laughing and crying at once. At last she felt loved.
A year later she gave birth to a boy, Isaac. Matthew doted on his wife, got up at night for the little one, changed nappies, helped push the pram out of the flat. Soon the factory granted them a spacious, bright house. Live and be happy, they told each other.
They raised their children, waited for grandchildren. Grayhaired Elsie now makes jam on the summer porch while the youngsters play nearby.
Grandma, I love you, cries Ollie.
Grandma, we love you too, replies Dean.
Grandma, I love you, babbles little Maisie.
We all love Grandma, says Grandpa Matthew, smiling with a twinkle in his eye.
Elsie wipes away a stray tear, amazed that a girl who grew up unloved could one day be surrounded by so much love.
